


Solstice

by Wicked_Seraph



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Developing Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Language of Flowers, M/M, Post-Canon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-08-21 21:26:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16584491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked_Seraph/pseuds/Wicked_Seraph
Summary: solstice (n.): 1. either the shortest day of the year (winter solstice) or the longest day of the year (summer solstice)A series of drabbles exploring the chasm left after the events of Volume 19.Post-BF leading up to Garden of Light.





	1. 1987

It was 1987. 

Eiji no longer knew the month or the day. At some point  Sing had started dressing him in flannels, and he vaguely registered that  the stew he couldn’t keep down had more kabocha than he remembered. The curtains in their apartment remained drawn, the outside world reduced to the recurring sliver of sunlight on the floor that cut through the darkness. 

Occasionally particles of dust that floated like phantoms or errant stars caught a sliver of light, and suddenly it was 1985 again, when he and Ash lay in the grass behind his childhood home learning the names of constellations. Ash had grasped at the stars, as though hoping to claim one for himself.  How fragile he looked then, a contradiction of gun-calloused fingers and slender wrists, a childish smile on scarred lips. 

"Want me to steal one for you?” he asked, looking over at Eiji with a small grin. “I could do it, you know. I think I could steal just about anything if I worked at it.”

“Even me?” Eiji had quipped, smirking at the impossibility of it. Ash had laughed along with him, but both of them knew it was a meaningless taunt. There was little left that hadn’t already been claimed.

_Dust is a poor substitute for a starry sky_ , Eiji thought humorlessly.

The year had imprinted itself indelibly on his consciousness, burning behind his eyelids like the red-hot afterimage of the sun. 

It was 1987.

Ash was gone. 

* * *

It was 1987.  
  
The entire weight of Chinatown rested squarely on his tiny shoulders, and he hated that  even at sixteen years old he still had to look up to meet the coroner’s stony blue eyes.

Sterile white walls. Gleaming stainless steel without even the humanity of a fingerprint. Fluorescent lights that made the motionless figure drowning in their glow look more like a mannequin than a corpse. 

The room was frigid, but his shirt clung to his skin, slick with a thin sheen of sweat. 

Blond hair. Unnaturally beautiful face. The lids were closed but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the eyes beneath them were a startling jade. Sing tried not to focus on how the tint of his skin was all wrong,  wondering how he had never noticed that Ash had freckles. He knew he was stalling,  trying to find constellations  and patterns in the light dust of color on Ash’s pale cheeks and rigid shoulders, anything to forget the fact that these were  Ash’s freckles on Ash’s skin and Ash was de— 

“Well?” the coroner said, voice clipped with irritation. Sing could only imagine how many times he’d seen this before: some dumb kid tangled in crime and meaningless gang wars until finally his luck ran out. The figure with blue lips and an unnatural pallor was just another body to ID and rebag before the mandated autopsy to confirm what they already knew: penetrating trauma.  Cause of death: exsanguination.  
  
"Yes,” Sing whispered, voice thick as he tried to talk around the painful lump in his throat. “It’s him.”


	2. 1988

It was 1988.

Eiji had picked up his camera again. His voice was slowly returning, but filtered through acetate and fixer.

- _click_ -

A pill bottle, still full of expired medication, with dust gathering on its lid. It stood defiantly as the sole occupant of a night table, neatly contained within the faint ring of a water stain. He could almost hear Sing’s voice, husky and prone to shifts in pitch, urging him to take just one. He’d learned to count the days by how often Sing would tip-toe through the door and leave a glass of water for him.

"Eiji… please take one. Just one. It’ll help with the pain,” Sing pleaded softly . The resonance in his voice sounded too much like well-bred hostility, eyes like daggers burying themselves into his skull. He chose to swallow his reflexive panic instead, imagining it might counteract the blackness that covered his thoughts like tar. 

"I can’t,” Eiji croaked. “I would rather feel this.”

He let the implication dangle like a loose thread, resisting the urge to tug and watch as his self-control unwound into useless thread in his hands.

Only once did Sing lose his temper. He was polite enough to shut the door as he left, but it did little to muffle the  sound of glass shattering in the kitchen, punctuated by a broken sob. 

**「Resistance 」.  January 1, 1988.**

* * *

“I’m doing well,” he’d written after receiving a letter from his mother. Her concern was nearly palpable; he hadn’t written or called her in over a year. Her letters had become urgent, devoid of the usual pleasantries and veiled criticisms.

“I’m sorry for worrying you — I’ve been so busy with work and studying. The weather is beautiful. I wish you could see it — New York is lovely in the spring.”

Knowing she would ask, he set a timer on his camera and settled into a toothless smile.  A grin was more than he could accomplish without feeling like he was peeling the skin from his face.

He liked this picture the least.

His mouth was smiling.

The only light in his eyes was the dull reflection of the camera’s flash; his eyes, sunken and tinged with dark circles, looked cavernous. His lips were cracked, his hair matted and unkempt. He knew this would be far from reassuring. He felt a poisonous pleasure curdling within him.

_She wanted to know, after all. It can’t be helped._

He mailed the photo.

She stopped sending letters.

**「Skeletal 」.  April 26, 1988.**

* * *

It had taken a while to find the headstone. At first, he wasn’t sure if it existed. After all, Sing had been the one to identify the bod— 

Sing had been the one to make all the arrangements, including where and how Ash’s remai— 

Sing had been the one to make all the arrangements. 

Eiji couldn't bring himself to ask Sing where to look. Despite his initial misgivings, however, he knew with frightening certainty when he’d found the right one.

It felt like the wind had been knocked out of him, his vision wavering and watery as his eyes betrayed him. His tenuous promise, seemingly ironclad, was apparently easily set ablaze.

Pale, unfeeling stone, surrounded by overgrown grass and crinkled dead leaves. Moss had begun to grow around the edges; the neighboring headstones were immaculate in comparison. He didn’t dare to look too long at the name etched in white, nor the date following the hyphen meant to encapsulate his life. 

Eiji sighed, tying a bandanna firmly around his head to keep hair from getting in his eyes. He picked up his broom and began sweeping away the debris as carefully as he could, gathering up the leaves and tossing them into the bag he’d brought with him. Hours passed as he cleaned around Ash’s headstone, scrubbing at the stone patiently until no trace of grime or mold remained. The sun had begun to dip below the horizon before he finished, dying the sky vermilion.

“Like a pumpkin,” he said to himself, not sure if the tears that had begun streaming down his cheeks were from laughter or the gaping chasm in his chest.

He placed the small bouquet he’d brought gingerly against the headstone, hesitating for a moment before deciding to take a picture of the sunset instead, embraced by tree canopies and the angular rooftops of the cityscape.

**「** 桃色の椿の花束 **」. August 12, 1988.**

 

* * *

It had been a while since Eiji had smelled cider. Not since Halloween of 1986. 

Bones and Kong had dutifully hung streamers and lit candles around the small apartment, carving jack-o-lanterns all the while denying that their clumsy hands had anything to do with the crumpled beer cans scattered about. Eiji had tutted good-naturedly as he cleaned up after them, giddy as he watched the hand on the clock crawl through its paces.

Bones and Kong had grown even taller in the years since; neither of them needed to perch on chairs to hang garland or popcorn strings around the Christmas tree. Bones somehow had more teeth than he remembered.

“My ma said I should get a partial. Makes me more marketable,” Bones had explained sheepishly, his thin hair now a sleek crew cut instead of the tangled braid Eiji remembered. Kong had thinned, the ripples under his skin taut with muscle. 

“No one wants a toothless mutt selling them a car,” Sing laughed, taking a swig of cider and wincing at the strong bite of alcohol. 

“That’s rich comin’ from someone who ain’t even lost his baby teeth yet.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve got wisdom teeth now!”

“Issa Christmas miracle,” Bones slurred, raising his glass in a mock toast before taking a generous gulp. Kong shook his head, tongue poking through his lips as he fussed over the tree topper. 

“Eiji, c’mere a sec. I need ya to tell me if I got this angel on here straight,” he said, beckoning lazily. Eiji took a sip of cider, barely looking up.

“Looks fine.”

“The hell it does. Yer supposed to be good at figurin’ out angles and shit. I wanna make sure I get it on proper—”

“It’s not crooked. Sit down with us and have some more cider,” Eiji said, his voice just a hair too thin; only one person in the room would know to listen for it. Sing’s eyes narrowed, glancing at the tree before his eyes stopped at its tip.

_Goddamnit. I should have noticed._

Shops all over Chinatown sold tree toppers and Christmas cards around this time of year. He’d seen the exact same fucking angel every year since he was barely old enough to read the banal message scribbled on the inside. More Chinese kids than he could count had grown up fantasizing about her face, body hidden behind demure, flowing robes.

Blond hair. Emerald eyes. Delicate features overflowing with a dangerous, androgynous kind of beauty. Full lips that could whisper filth or benediction depending on the audience.

“Speaking of cider—” Sing interjected, taking a sip while he wracked his brain for an appropriate segue.

“ —my ma used to forbid me from drinking the stuff,” Bones said, quickly picking up on the urgency in Sing’s tone.

“So did mine. Tasted better when you weren't supposed to have it,” Kong added.

“Best Christmas I ever had was when me and my brother managed to swipe some from the corner store when we were still kids. Old guy runnin’ the place wanted to kill us. It was Ma’s favorite. She was too happy to bother askin’ how we got a hold of it. She pro’ly already knew.” 

“We weren’t really big on Christmas at my place. We saved most of our energy for the New Year’s celebrations. Christmas doesn’t hold a candle to New Year’s. Eiji can vouch,” Sing said, giving Eiji a small wink of encouragement. 

“I think my best Christmas was… two years ago,” Eiji said softly, voice barely audible above the crackling fireplace. All eyes in the room swiveled slowly towards Eiji, no one daring to breathe. 

“That was a pretty good one,” Sing said cautiously.

“I remember snow covering all the rooftops. I never thought New York could look quiet. But I remember waking up and seeing all the buildings and streets covered with snow. It was late — couldn’t have been earlier than noon — and A—”

Eiji’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes glassy.

“… Ash was still asleep. He could sleep through anything. No one ever wanted to wake him up. Not even you two,” he said with the ghost of a grin on his face, glancing at Bones and Kong. They were too stunned to return the gesture, mouths slightly agape.

“I remember that we had ham that year. A-Ash had always wanted ham on Christmas, you see, ‘like a normal f-fa—’”

The chasm in his chest overflowed.

Another loose thread left to dangle, less of his own volition rather than his mouth refusing to form the word.  He curled up against Sing’s chest, much broader than he remembered, hoping in vain that he wouldn’t soil his shirt with tears and snot . Bones and Kong quietly settled on either side of them, rubbing Eiji’s back in the best attempt at sympathy they knew.

Hours later, Eiji settled his camera on a tripod, stepping cautiously over the bodies slumped over, drunk on cider and wordless comfort long overdue. He set the timer far ahead, to when he knew he would be too submerged in slumber to be awoken by the camera shutter. There was something uncomfortably intimate about taking a picture of himself — of all of them — in the throes of sleep, limbs and bodies entangled as they subconsciously sought one another’s warmth. But he wanted to remember this. He needed to —  he couldn’t remember the last time a smile hadn’t felt like lying.

**「family」. Christmas 1988.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 桃色の椿の花束 = "a bouquet of pink camellias". In the West, pink camellias symbolize longing and are given to someone who is missed. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! I appreciate any critiques or kudos. Extra thanks to @Bleed_Peroxide for being my ever-patient beta and cheerleader.


	3. 1989

It was 1989.

- _click_ -

Two bowls had been stripped of their contents, their triplet in nearly the same state. Sing held the bowl just below his mouth, chopsticks creating a shrill, staccato song against the sides. He looked up warily from the rim, noodles hanging haphazardly from his mouth.

Sing was barely recognizable, his broad shoulders taking up much more of the frame than Eiji remembered. Still, little had changed in the past two years; though he seemed twice as big and had lost the baby fat in his cheeks, his eyes still glimmered with mischief.

In the pitch-black of the dark room, as he plucked photos from their bath and hung them to dry, Eiji felt a strange coil of heat in his stomach. 

He remembered taking this photo. 

He didn’t remember the provocative smirk on Sing’s lips or his penetrating gaze.

**「Hunger 」 - unpublished.  January 6, 1989.**

* * *

 

A small, nondescript envelope lay against the table, swelling as it absorbed the mixture of sake and tears beading on its surface. The neat, prim kanji had become illegible and smudged, the ink like a burst of fireworks against the parchment.

His mother’s letter cradled a photo as though to protect it. His sister and a man he’d never met stood rigidly in traditional wedding attire; their faces neutral but her eyes beaming. 

“ _It’s a shame you missed the wedding. You never returned my letters, so I’m afraid it couldn’t be helped. Your sister insisted on sending you her wedding photo; she wanted me to tell you that she understands why you couldn’t make it. You’re getting on in age, yourself. When are you going to bring home a wife?_ ”

Eiji plucked a handful of petunias from the hanging basket on the patio, scattering them in the crease of his mother’s ruined letter before taking a picture.

Two packages were mailed back. 

His sister received congratulations and a bouquet of yellow hyacinth.

His mother received the photograph and an envelope littered with petunia petals. 

**「結婚おめでとう」.  February 14, 1989.**  

* * *

A vase filled with red petunia and azalea sat on the table upon Sing’s return from Hong Kong. Sing had told him that he might be a few hours late, but didn’t elaborate.

“This place needed a little color,” Sing had explained when Eiji’s gaze fell in the bouquet in his arms. He knew better than the assume that the choice of flowers was incidental. Neither of them addressed it further as they ate their meal, the silence lush and soothing. 

“This is good,” Sing said in between slurps of soup. The cadence and verbiage were like a punch in the gut.

Suddenly it’s 1986, and Ash is sitting across the table from him with wet hair and bright green eyes, lips trembling as he tries to stifle a yawn.

“This is good,” he’d said in a sleepy murmur, shoving a forkful of salad into his mouth. “You’ll make a good wife someday.”

However, it’s 1989 now and the eyes that meet his are black like obsidian. Sing’s lips settled into a sad smile, and Eiji remembered that he could never lie to Ash, and he can’t lie to Sing, either. The excuse died in his throat.

“Can I…?”

“Of course.”

He waited patiently as Eiji set up the camera, fussing with the angle and distance. Sing propped his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand and tilting his head with undisguised curiosity. There was soil under his fingernails, his cheeks smudged with dirt and sweat.

Sing’s dark eyes are bottomless and inviting.

**「Shelter 」.  March 23, 1989.**

* * *

Somehow after exactly one year, the granite headstone is unblemished, the surrounding grass manicured and trimmed. The neighboring graves look neglected in comparison.

A pot of mixed zinnias, clearly new, is there to greet him, with just enough space left beside it for the pink camellias in Eiji’s arms.

Eiji looks down at the crumpled paper in his hands, meticulously penned and ultimately meaningless. It wouldn’t matter if the words were in English or Japanese — his breath refuses to transform into words. Each time he tries, he feels his chest cave and an inhuman wail rattle against his vocal cords. He knows that if he lets it break lose, he won’t be able to stop. 

“ _It... It's been —_ ”

Eiji catches himself, his throat constricting. Ash wouldn’t understand him, and saying it in Japanese feels cowardly.

“It’s been a long —“

A dangerous cough escapes him, suspiciously close to a sob. Eiji clears his throat again, taking a deep breath before his knees crumple beneath him. He feels his body lurch forward, his arms trembling before they wrap around the gravestone desperately. 

He’s not sure what he expected. Granite doesn’t flush or give off heat with every strong, defiant heartbeat. It’s impossible to pretend that the goosebumps on his skin aren’t from the humid chill in the air rather than from a warm, breathy laugh just a little too close to his neck. 

It’s unbearably cold, his bones warping into jagged icicles beneath his skin. Ash drinks in his body heat; Eiji sighs as his eyelids flutter shut, hoping that it’s enough, even as his fingertips become numb.

The air smells like ozone and summer grass. The scent is nostalgic, reminding him of days spent in the back of a rusty pick-up truck with Shorter and Ash sprawled across the bed, lulled to sleep by the raindrops pattering across the roof.

He lets the camera capture one photo — only one. He set the timer an indiscriminate interval of time ahead, one that he would forget moments after he set it. He can’t bear to do more than that — he knows that granite cannot feel, cannot retain heat, but he can’t bear to risk being apart from it longer than he needs to. 

Eiji curls up against the headstone, the cool indent of Ash’s name against his cheek. He feels the bottom of his heart drop out, and allows himself to break.

**「Synastry」. August 12, 1989.**

* * *

Sing never asks questions.

When Eiji bursts through the front door and throws himself into Sing’s lap, he’s greeted with silence and warmth like honey seeping into the craters and cavities in his skin. Sing’s hands are large and compassionate, rubbing generous circles across his back. 

Violent heat burns within him, and he can feel his dignity curling up like singed paper within the flames. His legs rest on either side of Sing’s hips, and he wills himself to pretend that the entropy clawing at his viscera feels like excitement rather than nausea. 

“Touch me,” he pleads, eyes darting towards Sing’s neck, his lips — anywhere but eyes that would devour him if he asked. “Please, I can’t—”

“You don’t want this,” Sing whispers, letting Eiji bury his face in the crook of his neck in pale imitation of affection; he feels rather than hears Eiji’s wet, gulping sobs against his throat. His hands skim gently underneath Eiji’s shirt, finding clammy, frigid skin. He runs his hands along the knobby planes of Eiji’s back, hoping that his warmth is enough for two. 

 - - - 

Eiji awakes hours later with a throbbing headache and strange sense of calm. Sing sits at the computer desk, motionless as his eyes skim the monitor.

He sees a pair of soiled gardening gloves in Sing’s back pocket — carefully concealed, but not enough to hide the zinnia petals clinging to the fabric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Petunia: represents anger, resentment, and the sentiment "being with you is soothing".
> 
> Yellow hyacinth: represents jealousy
> 
> Azalea: represents "take care of yourself", temperance, homesickness, and passion that is still developing and fragile.
> 
> Zinnia: the color determines the meaning, but a mixed bouquet specifically represents thinking of an absent friend.


	4. 1990

It was 1990.

Unlike Sing, everyone asks questions.

The questions are trite and Eiji has to swallow a scream as he supplies the answers. Sing’s hand is warm and grounding against his back; he likes to imagine Sing’s strength pouring into him, a salve over the thousand paper cuts in his flesh.

I came to New York five years ago to report on a young gang leader and his friends. Yes, I still talk to some of them. No, I don’t talk to  _all_ of them; one of them passed away, you see. 

Yes, we were close.

The interviewer shifts uncomfortably in her seat when Ash’s name falls from his lips like skin being peeled from a wound. Her hair is the color of straw and Eiji almost sobs with relief when the eyes that meet his are aquamarine.

The magazine’s photographer asks takes his picture. He’s learned how to smile correctly, though it feels like baring his fangs. Sing, standing close enough behind him for Eiji to bask in his body heat, whispers a lewd joke into his ear and the smile feels a little more natural.

The photographer is quiet, as though considering whether or not to ask Sing to step out of the frame. He feels Sing’s hand tighten on his shoulder when asked what his relationship to Eiji is — “so we know how to label you when this goes to print”. The unspoken question sours his tone. Sing’s eyes narrow, his smile like the edge of a knife.

“I’m his partner,” he says, refusing to elaborate. 

**「New York’s Up-And-Coming Photographers」.** **_Diversions Magazine_ ** **. January 17, 1990.  
  
**

* * *

 When Sing returns home, he’s greeted by a sliver of light on the floor, slicing through the darkness. 

It brings back memories of cooking nothing but congee and stew for months, spoon-feeding Eiji when grief paralyzed him. Those months are painted putrid shades of brown and black: stew, soil, vomit, root vegetables — all submerged in the constant void of a lightless apartment. Occasionally he saw a pair of eyes peering bleakly from the darkness, fixated on the strips of alternating sunlight and moonlight on the floor. Eiji’s eyes were hollow, and Sing knew that his soul was light-years away in a place he could never reach.

Despair fills his stomach like hot lead.

“Eiji?”

He hates how loud his footsteps sound, his measured tone betrayed by the urgent tempo of his stride. The silence that greets him is a scalpel against his breast, his heartbeat a jackhammer threatening to shatter his ribcage.

He finds Eiji curled up in bed, face pale but mercifully dry. Sing gently rests his index and middle fingers against the side of Eiji’s neck, releasing the breath trapped in his lungs when he finds a pulse. 

Pulse: normal  
Respiration: normal  
Complexion: normal  
Wrist: uninjured  
Neck: uninjured  
Clothes: clean  
Mouth: empty  
Pill bottle: full  
Cutlery: untouched  
Toxic plants: untouched  
Call log: no missed or outgoing calls 

As Sing steps back into the room, having cataloged every square inch of the apartment, a sheet of paper flutters in the corner of his eye on the nightstand. He can’t help but smile at Eiji’s small, rounded handwriting.

_Had a headache so I went to bed a little early. I know how much you hate when I leave the lights on._

_Please don’t worry about me._

The lead in his stomach cools, replaced by the familiar wave of numb relief. He buries his face in his hands and wonders why he feels like crying.

\- - -

Eiji awakens the next morning to find Sing slumped over at the edge his bed, snoring quietly. There’s an nondescript book in his lap, but Eiji knows without checking that he won’t find a bookmark or evidence that Sing turned its pages.

**「Vigil」. February 14, 1990.**

* * *

 Sing smells like jasmine and a cologne that Eiji doesn’t remember him buying. A long black hair the color of a raven’s claw is stuck to his collar.

Something hateful and venomous courses through his veins; he can taste it like bile rising in the back of his mouth, twisting his lips into what he hopes isn’t a snarl.

“Yer angry with me, Eiji.”

It isn’t a question. Sing’s eyes are unnervingly clear and focused despite his slurred speech. The smile that slowly forms on Sing’s face stains Eiji’s vision red.

“Why would I be upset? It sounds like you had a wonderful time.”

“You don’t sound remotely happy about it. C’mere and tell me ‘bout yer day,” Sing says sweetly, patting the seat next to him on the sofa. His tone suggests that he has nothing to hide; the poison in Eiji’s veins curdles and blackens.

Of course he has nothing to feel guilty about. Any normal man would — 

“Sing, you’re drunk. Go lay down and sleep it off.”

“Not til ya tell me ‘bout yer d—”

“Fine. Then I’ll go sleep it off.”

A rough, calloused hand clenches around his wrist before Eiji makes it two steps from the sofa. Sing’s grip is unyielding and painless; in spite of the sludge boiling in his stomach, it sends a thrill up Eiji’s spine. He meets Sing’s gaze and finds it unwavering; whatever traces of lingering warmth and tranquility Sing might have felt from the alcohol have all but evaporated. 

“You and I both know that you’re not pissed off at me because you think I’m drunk. You think I slept with someone. Judging by the way yer mouth keeps twitching, I know I’m right.”

“Why should I care if you did?"

Sing’s smile is humorless and pitying, and he knows that Sing believes the words less than he did saying them. Sing pats the seat next to him once more. This time Eiji obeys, stretching his legs out over Sing’s lap and resting his head against Sing’s chest. His emotions are a shrieking cacophony, nails against an open wound; Sing wraps an arm around his shoulders, fingers playing idly with Eiji’s hair.

“The perfume,” he says quietly, “is Nadia’s. She and Charlie are getting married. I made a toast and enjoyed the free _baijiu_ a little too much.”

Eiji says nothing; Sing’s heartbeat is steady and familiar, the melody of countless nights where little else would lull him to sleep. The shrieking blackness settles; the gaping hole where his thoughts should be reminds him of Izumo after a typhoon.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you that it took twenty minutes for my drunk ass to catch a cab?”

In spite of himself, Eiji smiles, curling tighter against Sing’s chest. The jasmine smells sweet against his skin; beneath it, he can still detect traces of Sing’s scent, warm and intoxicating. 

“Serves you right.”

\- - -

Sing finds the photo while cleaning the apartment, Eiji away at a gallery giving an interview.

He remembers this night — drinking too much  _baijiu_ and the raw hurt in Eiji’s eyes when he came home. He also remembers Eiji’s fragile body anchored against him as they both drifted off to sleep.

Eiji must have taken this photo impulsively while Sing slept — the lighting and framing are minimal, their faces and bodies lit by what looks like a flashlight as the sole source of illumination.

Eiji’s head rests on his shoulder, one hand splayed possessively against Sing’s chest. The languid gaze and smirk on his face can only be described as “obscene”.  
  


**「Hunger II」- unpublished. May 23, 1990.**

* * *

 Eiji never asks Sing how Ash’s grave is meticulously maintained.

Sing’s hands and clothes are clean, but he smells like incense and potting soil. Sing always brings Eiji a pastry and azaleas when he wants an alibi; there’s a bakery right next to the florist where Sing buys their houseplants.

“Managed to snag the last croquette from an old bitty who probably wouldn't be able to taste it,” he says, peeling back the wrapping on a blueberry muffin. 

The chocolate filling tastes like ashes. 

The florist is closed on Sundays. Eiji knows without asking where Sing actually picked up the flowers and pastries. 

“Who’s running the bakery right now? I thought Ms. Schmitt vacationed around this time of year.”

A pause.

“Does she, now?”

“Every year, second week of August.”

“Some new girl was running the register. I didn’t catch her name, took forever for her to get the order right.”

“I see. Well, it seems it all worked out in the end. This croquette is delicious — how unfortunate for the ‘old bitty’ you had to fight for it.”

Sing laughs quietly, though his eyes are glassy with what looks like an apology. 

\- - -

The rest of Ash’s birthday passes uneventfully.

Eiji asks Sing if he’d like to visit Ash’s grave with him.

Sing doesn’t pretend not to know how to find it when they arrive. Sing doesn’t pretend not to know how to unlock the gate, nor how to make his way past the two paths cordoned off for restoration. The sun has long since retired, but Sing finds Ash’s grave easily with the practiced stride of someone navigating their own bedroom in the dark. 

Eiji doesn’t pretend not to know why the grave is immaculate.

As usual, Eiji brings a bouquet of pink camellias; Sing brings a bouquet of mixed zinnias. 

Wordlessly, they both set down their respective bouquets, the silence pregnant with words left unspoken. 

All the words he wanted to say shrivel up. There’s little he could tell Ash that he doesn’t already know, that he hasn’t heard Eiji sob and scream over the past three years. Sing’s eyes are unerringly calm, as though visiting an old friend.

Eiji wraps his arms around Sing; Sing startles, but buries his head into the crook of Eiji’s neck, completing the circle of Eiji’s embrace. The air is humid and sticky with the sound of cicadas beating their wings; the cool breeze that cuts through it feels like a smile, a hand caressing his cheek.

It feels like permission, and he allows himself to melt into Sing’s arms.

“Thank you,” Eiji whispers. A breeze and a steady heartbeat resonate in reply.

\- - -

“This will sound strange, but —“

“Of course you can. Just let me know when not to blink.”

Eiji races to the tripod, fussing with the camera with a lightness in his step that sends a violent pang through Sing’s chest. 

He can’t remember the last time he could describe anything Eiji did as “light”; for years, Eiji seemed as though he were being dragged downward — past his heels, past the firmament, far past where his soul ought to be. 

Eiji jogs back to Sing’s side, vibrating with restless energy. Eiji’s hands are clasped together at his front, but when Sing places an arm loosely around his shoulders, he leans into the touch. 

“Alright, Sing. Try not to blink.”

“Yessir,” he says with a grin, eyes locked on the small lens swallowed up by the graveyard.

**「Trinity」- unpublished. August 12, 1990.**


	5. 1991

It was 1991.

Eiji learned how to determine a caller by Sing’s tone.

Sing’s affectionate snarl and gutter slang became more pronounced when he spoke to a friend, his speech woven with expletives and superlatives.

When his voice dropped an octave and fell into a cadence as smooth as glass, Eiji knew that he was speaking to someone wearing an expensive business suit and fine jewelry. Sing’s Cantonese was fascinating to listen to; though Eiji couldn’t understand it, he liked to hear how Sing’s voice became songlike, almost jubilant as he slipped into the language of noisy back alleys and apothecaries with remedies thousands of years old. He didn’t have to ask to know that Sing never swore with this particular tone.

Sing only spoke in Cantonese with one other person, and only when he didn’t want Eiji to know who it was. The gesture was kind but meaningless — Sing’s face was always etched with grief and stale rage, his eyes hollow; there was only one person who could be responsible. Every so often Sing would raise his voice, his words sounding like gunfire or a hissing snake.

Sing would always say the same phrase before slamming the phone down on its receiver, chest heaving as he tried to steady his breathing. For a few seconds, he always forgot that Eiji was in the same room. 

Eiji never asked what exactly it was that Sing said. The way his mouth trembled, eyes moist with tears on the verge of falling, required no translation.

**「Loyalty」 . January 4, 1991.**

 

Before he’d learned to imprint memories onto film, physical tokens were the only way Eiji trusted himself to remember. Life was frighteningly evanescent; there was something comforting about holding onto tangible proof of his existence, proof that the vague afterimages he replayed weren’t imagined.

There were those things that provided a warm kind of melancholy, the sweet ache of lukewarm water against frostbitten skin: 

A frayed, faded ribbon from winning first place in a pole vaulting event when he wanted to remember what it felt like to fly.

A water-stained photo of his family gathered proudly near the entryway of his childhood home when he wanted to remember a life of comfortable sepia and pastels.

Some things, however, were much too decadent: 

A nondescript notepad with messy handwriting reminding him to pick up milk from the store.

A unwashed shirt that lay forgotten in a laundry basket, now folded reverently.

A cassette from the answering machine. 

Photographs and negatives.

The frozen, hibernating grief within him would feast upon these offerings, wild with ecstasy; there was something to be said about the sadistic thrill of watching his grief go mad with hunger, immortal but too weak to protest. Starving a beast was cruel, but he could think of no alternative that wouldn’t consume him in the process. 

Eiji kept a box within his closet, nestled between flannel shirts and bins overflowing with photography equipment. 

It felt strangely meta, to take a photo of a box containing much of the same, to create a token reminding him of others. 

He liked to remind himself that the beast starved because he enjoyed hearing it whimper. He liked to remind himself that he, too, could be a demon.

**「Mercy」 . March 23, 1991.**

 

A dangerous, lush kind of pleasure has begun to worm its way inside the craters and caverns beneath his ribs;  he thinks of vermin crawling inside rotting Swiss cheese . Something inhuman is clawing at him, but he can no longer tell if it’s trying to escape or make its way in; all he can feel is a restlessness just past the edges of his consciousness. 

It isn’t until weeks pass that a more accurate comparison springs to mind: a tapeworm.

The parasite takes the edge off his grief; it’s content to nibble on the frayed edges of it, and it’s during these times that he begins to think he’s moving forward. He laughs at jokes; he takes photographs of things like birds or families walking dogs in the park. He recognizes when food is meant to taste good; he can compliment specific flavors and spices, and the unabashed relief on Sing’s face makes something fragile within Eiji crack. 

It’s easy to delude himself into thinking that the tapeworm feeds only on the murky blackness. 

But the parasite is greedy. When it begins to run low on poison, the parasite has no qualms about feasting on the small, half-filled reservoir of bright things within him.

When it wants for self-destruction, the parasite whispers to him about the beauty in the edges of a ceramic knife, in the whistling of free-fall for eighteen stories with concrete for a finale. When it wants for sadism, the parasite reminds him of a box called “mercy” tucked deep within his closet, reminding him that the fetters on the beast are made of gossamer rather than iron. 

The parasite enjoys guilt the most; Eiji can feel it roar in triumph when he allows himself to  _want_ .

He wants to grow claws and rip Yut-Lung apart until he unravels into flesh and silk ribbons at his feet. He wants to find his heart and crush it into dust.

He wants to drink himself unconscious and purge the oily black tar coating his insides. He wants to feel it hurt going down and hurt coming back up, to feel nothing in-between. 

He wants Sing to make him forget. Sing reminds him of the things he longed for in private, behind closed doors and the drone of running water, in darkened bedrooms with backs facing one another. 

He longs for blond hair and green eyes and a low throaty laugh that still made his blood burn after four years of it being merely an echo. He longs for the body whose dips and curved he’d memorized as it curled against him; he longed for lips that he’d only ever tasted once, too quickly to learn their shape.

He longs for hair and eyes the color of licorice and the smooth, comforting purr of his voice. He longs for broad shoulders and a body that seemed to envelop him; he longs to feel Sing’s heart race the way he knows it does, the way Sing pretends not to. He had stolen Sing’s body heat enough to memorize his scent, his temperature; he wants to know what the rest of him feels like. He wants to expose the purulent, necrotic vileness beneath his skin and watch as Sing recoiled.

Eiji dreams of dead blonds that wept in his lap, cries out as he imagines Sing in his mouth and between his thighs. Relief is brief and acrid; the parasite gulps down sweetness before Eiji can be warmed by it. 

Sing doesn’t question Eiji when he stumbles out of the room, knees still weak from climax. He slumps bonelessly against Sing on the couch, breathing in the scent of his cologne, of Sing himself buried beneath it. 

As usual, he assumes that Sing doesn’t know what transpired. He reaches across Sing’s body to grab the remote at his side, and feels rather than hears Sing’s sharp intake of breath. Against his stomach, he can feel the evidence that Sing knows — that he’s known all along.

”It’s been a while since I’ve taken a picture of you; your hair’s gotten long,” Eiji says innocently. He takes a lock of his hair between his fingers, twirling it idly to prove his point.

Sing’s eyes refuse to meet his; even in the harsh light cast by the television, his face is clearly flushed.

”Maybe another day,” he says. If his voice sounds a little strained, pitched a little lower than usual, neither of them address it.

\- - -

Eiji arranges a vulgar display of ripe pomegranates, arils and juice spilling over. He scatters red poppies, white poppies, laughing as he tosses the petals over his head like confetti. His chin is stained a garish red, his fingers sticky.  The color is more reminiscent of blood than fruit, but the way it clings from the corner of Eiji’s mouth strikes Sing as oddly debauched.

His laughter sounds just a tad too high-pitched to be reassuring; it sounds manic, closer to a sob. Sing looks on, eyebrows furrowed, his face painted with an unreadable expression.

He‘s familiar enough with Eiji’s typical choice of motifs to know that the mixed message the arrangement sends is intentional.

**「id」 . May 16, 1991.**

 

Breakfast is a quiet affair, porridge with green onions and thinly-sliced tofu. The broth is flavorful without any heat. 

Sing sips his tea and reads the newspaper, his face unnaturally calm. He hasn’t so much as looked at Eiji since the night prior, when he used fruit and flower petals as a madman’s paint.

Eiji stirs the porridge aimlessly, pretending that his hands aren’t shaking, that his face isn’t burning from shame. His nerves feel like an exposed wire.

“Congee’s good,” he mumbles.

“How would you know? You’ve barely touched it.”

“I’ve had a few bites. I’m just… not very hungry today.”

“You’ve been busy lately, it’s to be expected. You even forgot about the picture you wanted to take,” he says lightly, the corners of his lips just barely curving into a smile. Eiji’s stomach flutters with something dark and hopeful.

“Picture?”

Sing’s smile sharpens. He reaches for Eiji’s free hand, guiding it towards a lock of his hair and winding the strands around Eiji’s fingers. Sing’s face is mere inches from his, something violent and ravenous lurking behind his eyes; not for the first time Eiji shivers, wondering how its teeth would feel against his neck.

“It’s been a while since I’ve taken a picture of you; your hair’s gotten long,” he says, and almost instinctively Eiji’s blood burns. He doesn’t remember saying it like this, voice soft and honeyed, rich like molasses. Sing’s tone is feigned ignorance, a knowing laugh before savoring something forbidden.

“Ah… right. Would it be alright if I did now, while I remember?”

“I wouldn’t have mentioned it if it wasn’t. I do have one condition, however.”

“What’s that?”

“I want you in the picture with me, for once.”

Eiji is quiet, face aflame as he sets up the tripod, nearly dropping his equipment more than once. Sing pushes their seats together, watching Eiji and settling into a chair.  

Eiji sets the timer and sits next to Sing, wondering if he’s imagining the marginal space between them tingling. Sing slings his arm around Eiji, hand resting just before his shoulder.  His thumb rests just underneath his collar, stroking gently — light enough to be deniable, but firm enough to make his skin burn from the contact. 

**「ego」 . May 17, 1991.**

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Sing raises an eyebrow, taking a long sip of tea. The heat fogs up his glasses, obscuring the expression on his face. Eiji knows it’s intentional but says nothing.

“What would you rather talk about?”

“Satellites. Maybe microscopes.”

“Kinda dull, don’t you think?”

“You think so? I think it’s a happy topic,” Eiji says, fussing with the half-eaten fish on his plate. 

“I think I might know what you mean, but enlighten me,” Sing says, leaning back in his chair. 

"Sometimes it’s easy to forget that there’s a world outside,” Eiji starts. “I go to the same shops, buy the same groceries, see the same neighbors every day. Most days, you’re the only person I see or talk to. Sometimes it feels like my whole world is… this,” he says, gesturing widely with his fork.

“That’s not to say that I mind,” he adds quickly. “I like… this. It’s comfortable. Safe.” 

Eiji’s smile warms, his cheeks just a shade rosier than before, but Sing lets him continue.

“Earth is so small from a satellite, though. You remember just how many other small worlds like mine there must be out there — countless other people living their lives just the same way, oblivious. It… hurts, in a way, but it’s also comforting.”

“Countless self-contained worlds where people wonder how time continues on outside of them?"

“Yes, exactly. It’s sad to think that others feel that kind of… disconnected feeling. Things happen; it rains and rains until suddenly the world becomes an ocean, and the place where you set an anchor is… how do you say it? A boat? An island…?”

“An ark?” Sing supplies.

“An ark. Eventually, you forget about the world outside the ocean. All you see is the ark. But when you see the earth from space — it’s nothing but an ocean. It reminds you that you’re not the only one, I guess.”

“The funny thing about that is that you can’t stay out at sea indefinitely,” Sing says. “Eventually, the currents are going to drag you along, and eventually you’re going to hit solid land. Even if you’re in the middle of the ocean, even if you’re forgotten what sand and oak trees feel like, you’ll eventually wash up somewhere. And if you’re not sure, we humans have the ocean in our blood. We’ve taught each other how to read the stars and constellations since before we fully understood them.”

“I never learned how to do any of that; I wouldn’t even know where to start,” Eiji murmurs.

Sing reaches across the table and cover’s Eiji’s hand lightly with his; Eiji can feel his hand tremble, can see the fearful rhythm of Sing’s pulse on his neck. Sing’s hand is warm and grounding, as though a flood of words left unspoken were coursing between them. For once, Sing seems uncertain.

Eiji takes a deep breath before lacing his fingers with Sing’s, a fragile smile blooming across his features. He can feel something shift in the weight between them, terrifying yet elating. He isn’t sure if the nameless tension feels heavier or lighter — only that it feels like his foot has grazed the edge of a cliff, too close to the precipice to do anything but leap, hand in hand with Sing.

\- - -

Sing is fast asleep on the couch, lulled by a full stomach and the soft drone of last-night talk shows. His lashes are dark against pale cheeks, lips slightly parted. His fingers are lightly curled in the imprint of someone else’s being laced with them.

Eiji finds himself transfixed, memorizing the way the moonlight and flickering television’s glow caresses his broad shoulders and lean muscles; a small crease and sparse trail of hair leads below the waistband of his boxers. Something dark simmers in the pit of his stomach, murky and frightening. 

He knows that if he were to do what it demands, Sing would be welcoming, and that scares him most.

**「Jonquil」 . August 12, 1991.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red poppies: often symbolize remembrance/death, but can also symbolize pleasure, peace, and sleep.  
> White poppies: often symbolize mourning or consolation  
> Pomegranates: MANY different meanings, typically fertility and rebirth  
> Jonquil: symbolizes reciprocated love/affection/desire; it also symbolizes sympathy.
> 
> I wanted to make a small notation that I do realize some elements of this fic are no longer canon-compliant; I realized while re-reading Garden of Light that Eiji in this fic grieves differently. I am aware of some of these discrepancies, but wanted to continue to explore the post-canon events as they've unfolded thus far.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted desperately to write about the shifting dynamic between Ash, Eiji, and Sing, but also knew that I probably wouldn't be able to sit down and write full-length chapters about such a painful period (yet). I've always wanted to try my hand at a series of drabbles, and felt this might be a good avenue to do so.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! Kudos and criticisms are always welcomed.
> 
> [11/17/18: Updated rating to "Mature" to play it safe in anticipation of upcoming chapters.]


End file.
